It is a natural tendency of mine to
spend a good amount of time in reflection, and this year spent in service has
given me much to reflect on. In this time I have had many strong and
ever-changing feelings and insights. One such insight continues to stare me
down in the face and refuses to be forgotten or brushed aside. It is, simply,
that sometimes living in Chicago bothers me. It challenges me and it forces me
to see the world, not as I would like it to be, but as it really is. The
shocking reality that I have come to know, is that Chicago, while beautiful and
brilliant, is a broken city. It is broken by poverty, segregation, economic
inequality, and violence. And that is something I have struggled with.
“I see a
skyline that only half the city gets to touch.” This is a line that really
stuck with me from a play I recently saw about the devastating effects of the violence
that occurs on Chicago’s south and west sides. These words were especially
jarring because of my own love for Chicago’s beautiful skyline. Since I was
young, seeing the giant skyscrapers reflecting silvery light or brightening up
the night sky has always filled me with a sense of wonder and awe. It stands as
a symbol of all my hopes and dreams for the future, and its unwavering presence
gives me comfort and confidence. Even after living here for nearly ten months,
that view has never gotten old or tired for me. But as I thought about those
words from the play, I tried to put myself in the place of someone living in a
Chicago much different from the one I’ve come to love. Someone in a city that
seems to show no mercy, no care or concern if you live or die. A city that has
segregated you, failed your schools and your community, and seemingly left you
to fend for yourself. In that situation, my beautiful skyline becomes nothing
more than an ugly reminder. A reminder of a place that has hopelessly trapped
you. What I see as a symbol of dreams and potential is only a tease of
possibilities that are so incredibly far beyond reach. This realization has
been one of my many struggles this year.
I struggle
with the frustration of knowing that life is so difficult for half the people
in this city. It is same sense of frustration I often feel when I find myself driving
through different parts of Chicago, watching as the neat and orderly streets of
affluent neighborhoods fade into run-down, poverty stricken ones, marveling at
how a ten minute drive in one direction can lead me into a seemingly different
world. It’s the frustration that I have as I see church after church nestled in
between dilapidated, boarded up homes and wonder how the God who watches His
faithful pack those churches each Sunday can be the same God who watches
children gunned down as they play in the park or walk home from school.
I struggle
to reconcile my faith with the world I see around me. At a mass at St. Sabina’s
Church on the south side, I was blown away by the strength of the faith that
surrounded me. The people present were not there out of some sense of
obligation or right-doing, but out of a true need for spiritual strengthening.
Here were people struggling with poverty, violence, and injustice, experiencing
a deep and spiritual connection that I don’t know if I’ve ever felt. They had
every reason in the world to abandon faith, but there they were. I was amazed
and inspired and wondered if I’d ever be able to have such unwavering faith in
God’s love for the world.
I struggle
with my job. I meet with clients nearly every day, and as I listen to their
stories I wonder how on earth they are able to get through each day with lives
that are constantly thrown into chaos. I wonder what events in their past lead
them to where they are today, knowing that at one time they were probably just
like me, young and filled with hope as they began to make their way in the
world. I marvel at the fact that in the Lakeview neighborhood, one of the
nicest and most well off in the city, there are over two thousand individuals
each month who come to the pantry to get basic necessities. And I continue to
see many of the same faces month after month, realizing that we give only a
temporary solution to a much bigger problem that’s way beyond our control.
Then there are all the folks coming in from
other neighborhoods, where pantries are either non-existent or woefully
inadequate at meeting needs of the community. These individuals are served once
by Lakeview Pantry and then referred to a pantry closer to where they live.
There was one client I spoke to, at the pantry for the first time, who had come
over an hour by public transit from the far south side, just to get some food
for her family. She was a young woman, my own age, a single mother with three
children, the oldest not more than four. In that moment, I realized that, had
my life circumstances been different, I could have been in her same situation.
It was a jarring thought. I talked her through the process of getting food and
then gave her a referral to another pantry, my heart heavy. All I could do was
hope that the other pantry would be able to help her and her family. It’s hard
to turn people away, but our food supply is limited and we simply can’t help
everyone. There is more need in the city than we will ever be able to remedy.
Realizing that has been a struggle too.
And as I think about these experiences,
thoughts, and, especially, struggles that I’ve had, I’ve begun to recognize
something else Chicago has shown me. Like the city itself, I too am broken.
Broken by my doubts and insecurity, unsure of myself and my future. Broken by
my inability to feel as though I’m truly making an impact. Broken by my
seemingly endless lack of faith.
So, with the year coming to a
close, what remains? What do I take with me after my realization of a broken
city and a broken self? Well, what remains is, that in all honesty, we are all
broken people, broken by different things at different times. And with that
brokenness comes the opportunity for healing. That’s really what this year has
been about, recognizing our brokenness and the brokenness around us and working
towards healing. I am not naïve enough to think that by giving out food to a
family once a month or by sitting down and helping a young women with her
resume, that I can even begin to make a dent in the brokenness of Chicago. But
maybe, just maybe for that family or that young woman, I can help them along
the path to healing their own human brokenness. And in doing that I am brought
to healing as well.
What remains is that one true
definition of service, two lives coming together to heal the brokenness of
life. What remains is the journey of a lifetime, that path of personal healing
that we all find ourselves on.
This year has given me the tools to
press on in that journey: a willingness to serve, a desire to learn and grow, a
faith to deepen and explore, and a love for others that I never could have
imagined. Now I can go with purpose and with hope on the path of healing, for
myself, for those around me, and for this beautiful, broken city I’ve come to
call home. I’m thankful for that, thankful for all this year has given me. Thankful
for the chance to become whole. And that is what remains.
